


Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always1895, BAMF John Watson, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Hypothermia, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Snowed In, dammit moftiss why did you have to write that morgue scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14972150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Things go horribly wrong while John and Sherlock are on a mission for Mycroft.  Now they're out in the woods in the middle of winter with no coats and no shelter.  However will they stay warm?





	Things That You Can't Say Tomorrow Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to @fin_amour's #Always1895 June fic challenge on Twitter: cuddling. Me being me, I couldn't resist a little angst along with the romance. 
> 
> Thank you to @PootHowell, @KameoDouglas, and @tellywhich for looking this over and making invaluable suggestions and comments! You guys help make me a better writer. 
> 
> The title comes from the song Do I Wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys:
> 
> _Baby we both know_   
>  _That the nights were mainly made for saying_   
>  _Things that you can't say tomorrow day_

“You know, it’s not as if I insisted that you come.”

“Well, if I hadn’t, where would you be now?”

“Probably exactly where I am: in the middle of the Carpathians, in danger of freezing to death.”

“Sherlock, why didn’t you just give the Baron what he wanted?”

“And risk the entire scheme? I couldn’t.”

“Well, at least you could have saved the map.”

“Not that it would do us any good at this point.”

John sighed and surveyed the woods around them. Night was coming on and they were miles from anything approaching human habitation. And neither of them had their phones – those had, of course, been the first thing the Baron’s henchmen had taken from them when they’d been discovered, along with their coats and their passports, before they’d been turned out into the wilderness.

He looked over at Sherlock, who was standing ankle-deep in snow, arms wrapped around his chest, shivering. “Come on,” he said, and headed off into the woods.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding us some shelter. Well, making it, really.” 

“What do you know about finding shelter in the snow?”

“I did take a basic survival course in the Army, Sherlock.”

“But you were stationed in the desert!”

“They do have mountains in Afghanistan, and snow. Admittedly not quite as much as here. But they did prepare us for other climes. They didn’t assume we’d always be fighting in Afghanistan.”

He tramped farther into the woods, but the ground was flat and the snow was thin. He changed directions and headed back out. Right at the woodline was where he would find what he needed. 

He walked around a bit before he found what he was looking for. A large snowdrift, banked up against some boulders with a large tree next to them. As he walked around the whole thing, he could see where there would be just enough room for two people.

“Help me get some branches,” he said.

Sherlock grimaced, but he followed John back into the forest. A few yards in, a thick layer of fallen branches stretched out in front of them, still heavy with green needles. Perfect. “Take these,” he told Sherlock, loading his arms up, “and I’ll get the rest of them.”

It took them several trips, but the forest was old and not well-maintained, and there were lots of branches on the ground. After an hour or so, they had a large pile. John felt warm – he had worked up a sweat with all the going back and forth. Sherlock looked warmer, too; there was a healthy flush in his cheeks.

They dragged the last load of boughs back to the rocks, and John took a moment to survey before he started layering branches on the lee side, making a sort of lean-to against the boulders. Sherlock watched him for a moment, then started piling his own branches on. Before long they had a thick pad of greenery that extended diagonally from the top of the boulders to the ground. John made sure to lay plenty of the smaller, thinner branches down inside for a cushion. No point in making a shelter if all their body heat was leached out by the cold ground.

“Okay, now, snow on top of all of this,” John said. He scooped up a handful – it was perfect, wet enough to hold together well but not so wet that it would break the boughs. He dumped it on top of the lean-to they’d made and followed it with an armful. 

By the time they’d finished covering the shelter in snow, the sun had slipped well below the horizon and the sky had darkened to indigo. The stars were just beginning to appear, bright fiery specks against the velvety blue. 

Sherlock was shivering again, John noticed, standing outside the lean-to, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked in his armpits, his bespoke jacket and fitted dress shirt soaked through. Not good. He needed to get Sherlock warm before the temperature dropped any further.

“In you go,” he told Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a look, but got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the shelter, giving John a nice view of his bum, looking delectable even in ruined trousers. John sighed and tried to corral his errant thoughts, although experience told him it was folly.

He glanced up at the sky again, spotting the thin sliver of the crescent moon just peeking over the trees to the east. There’d be little to no ambient light in the woods tonight. Better that they were staying put, then. He took a deep breath and followed Sherlock. 

There was barely enough room for the both of them once he entered, but that was going to work to their advantage, since body heat would be better shared in the small space. John stripped off his wet sweater and hung it over some branches at their makeshift doorway. He helped Sherlock get his jacket off, and did the same with it. 

Between the night falling outside, and their clothes covering the opening, it was nearly pitch-black in their tiny shelter. Sherlock’s shirt was a white gleam in the darkness, his face a pale smudge above it. They huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, as the last of the light left the sky. 

The air in their small space was slowly warming, but John could feel that Sherlock was still shivering, pressed so close up against him. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“The snow is dripping down my neck,” Sherlock replied. Even in the limited light available, John could see that Sherlock’s position and greater height had his head pressed up against the snow-and-branch roof.

He surveyed the small space on the ground in front of them. It would be tight, but it might be the best way to exchange body heat and keep them both warm. “Lie down,” he said.

“What?”

“Lie down, here, on your side”

“There’s not enough room!”

“You’ll have to keep your knees bent a little, yeah, but there’s more than you think.”

Grumbling, Sherlock shifted himself down until he was lying on his side, his back to the rocks. “Budge up a bit,” John said, and then slid himself between the rocks and Sherlock. He plastered himself up against Sherlock’s back, fitting the bend of his knees to Sherlock’s as best he could.

He heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath, and belatedly realized that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, for him or for Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t really like to be touched, and he struggled, at the best of times, to manage his inappropriate physical reactions to his gorgeous and brilliant flatmate. “Is this okay?” he asked. “I think it’s going to be the best way for us to share body heat and stay warm, but if it’s not working for you, let me know.”

Sherlock shifted a little, scrunching forward so he could stretch out his legs a bit. He exhaled. “It’s fine.”

John snuggled up against his back again and slid his arm around him, making sure to keep well away from Sherlock’s waist and lower areas.

“How is it you’re so _warm_?” Sherlock murmured, his voice deep and a little slow.

“Army training,” he replied automatically, swallowing in a dry throat. He groped for Sherlock’s closest hand. “Christ, how is it your hands are like ice?”

“Snow is cold.”

“Tuck them into your armpits,” John told him. Sherlock complied, which just served to trap John’s arm against his chest. 

He sighed and resigned himself to his fate. Bending his other arm under his head for a pillow, he closed his eyes and tried to relax, even while his face was snuggled into the back of his flatmate’s neck. Getting out of here would entail a lot of walking, and they’d better get rest while they could. 

The air warmed. John breathed in the familiar smell of Sherlock’s shampoo, clean and verdant. He could also detect a light scent of sweat, more from their exertions building the shelter than fear. The regular rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest under his arm comforted him. Sherlock’s shivers lessened, coming less and less frequently, until they ceased altogether. If they hadn’t had shelter he might have been concerned; just to be sure, John opened his palm and placed it against Sherlock’s chest, felt the warmth of his skin under the thin shirt. 

His cock twitched a little at that, and he told it, sternly, to stop. It had a mind of its own, though, and was likely going to do whatever it wanted now that John was practically skin to skin with the object of his affections. Who had no interest whatsoever in sex. Or John. Not that way, at least. 

Which was not the case for John. It had been a long drought, even longer if he considered the last time he’d been with a man.

He sighed. However his body reacted, it wouldn’t be a surprise to Sherlock. He had to know how John felt about him, had always felt about him – he’d outed himself pretty clearly that first night at Angelo’s. It just wasn’t Sherlock’s thing, physical intimacy. Not his area. Nor emotional intimacy either, given that he didn’t see anything wrong with lying to his supposed best friend about, oh, everything in the world, from whether he was alive to whether they were about to blow up in a train carriage to whether he was using. 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart, trying to get himself back to that comfortable dozing state. They’d need all their energy tomorrow; it wasn’t smart to get himself all worked up like this. He could feel Sherlock taking slow, deep breaths, and felt his cheeks flush. How was it that Sherlock, who rarely slept, could fall asleep in an improvised snow shelter in the mountains and John, who had perfected the skill of taking sleep where and when he could get it in the Army, was lying awake? 

Wanker. 

He exhaled, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t see a thing regardless – it was pitch dark in the shelter – but closing his eyes told his brain to disengage and try to sleep. Counting his breaths usually helped as well. When he reached fifty-seven the shelter dissolved and they were running through the woods, breath swirling white ahead of them on the frosty air, and there were helicopters up above, with searchlights cutting wide swaths through the inky night—

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice, low and soft in the still warm air, woke him up. 

“John. Are you awake?”

“Hm?” he replied, his heart thumping as he shook the fragments of the dream from his mind. “You okay? What’s up?”

Silence.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

John frowned. “For what?”

“For all of it.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded odd, and a bolt of fear shot through him. He couldn’t really pick himself up given the low ceiling – not that he could have seen anything in the dark anyway – but he pulled Sherlock a little closer, tried to surreptitiously take his pulse.

“I’m fine, John.”

His pulse agreed – strong, steady, and regular – and John loosened his grip with a sigh. “Then what’s all this about being sorry for everything?”

Silence.

“Sherlock, we’re going to be fine. A little hungry, maybe, but we’ll start walking when first light comes. We’re both reasonably fit and I’m sure we can make it to the border by evening. You can get a hold of Mycroft then. Maybe we’ll find some...I dunno, berries, or something else we can eat along the way.”

“It’s not that.”

He frowned. “Then what are you talking about?”

Silence.

He exhaled. “Fine. Whatever. Listen, I’m going to get some sleep and I think you should, too.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the plan.”

“The plan?”

“To jump. From the roof at Barts. I should have told you.”

John was silent for a few moments. “You said you needed me to be convincing, that if there was any hint that I knew you were alive, my life – not to mention Greg’s and Mrs. Hudson’s – would be in danger.”

No response.

“You were right. I’d have done a terrible job of pretending to be distraught over your death. The real thing was much more convincing.” 

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he cursed silently in his head. That was probably a bit more emotion than Sherlock was going to be comfortable with. 

Silence.

“Anyway, I already forgave you for that, remember?”

“I’m sorry for that, too.”

“For what now?”

“The fake bomb. In the train carriage. When I made you think we were going to die.”

John chuckled in spite of himself. The memory of that night seemed very dim and very far away, after all they had been through since. “Yeah, you know, you could have just asked me if I’d forgive you.”

“I didn’t think you would if I just asked.”

That sobered him. “Sherlock, I meant what I said. I mean, I know that I was angry, when you first came back—”

“And after Mary died.”

He swallowed, a hard lump in his chest. “And after Mary died, yeah. I’m… that’s, that’s something that I have to apologize for—”

“It’s fine.”

John swallowed again. His arm twitched, fist clenching involuntarily. It was hard for him to think about that time, think about the person he had been then. He’d been so angry, at Sherlock, and at Mary, but mostly at himself. Angry and guilty, because it didn’t really bother him that Mary was dead. And that had horrified him, too, so much so that he’d tried to bury himself in a bottle, despite the fact that there was another life dependent on him. He’d thought that drinking would solve the problem, or at least keep the people he cared about safe from the monster that he was, except that drinking had made him into another person, a different type of monster. And he’d been so awful to the people in his life, especially Sherlock. That time, in the morgue… he’d been worried about Sherlock, but so angry, too, and his head had been pounding, and he’d been seeing Mary’s ghost, not just seeing, but talking to, except that it was probably his own thoughts, that’s what his therapist said… but that didn’t… he wasn’t sure how…

One minute things had been fine, well, not fine, but okay, at least what was passing for normal at that point, then suddenly Sherlock was looking frightened and lost, and he’d never seen Sherlock look like that. He’d seen Sherlock uncertain, yeah, but never so off balance, as if the foundations of his world had been knocked out from underneath him. It had terrified him to see that – he could admit that, now – and that horrible little man, Smith, had been talking, and grinning, and then Sherlock had had a scalpel in his hand, and he’d tried to get to him, tried to stop him, but his terror had become rage, somehow, and then he was punching, and kicking…

“Stop it.” Sherlock grabbed his arm. “I said it’s fine.”

_It’s really, really not_ , John thought, stomach churning. He took a deep breath and shoved the thoughts down, tried to focus on the conversation. “Anyway, I meant what I said. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and the most human human being I’ve ever known. And I have forgiven you.”

Sherlock was quiet. 

John took another deep breath, letting it out through his nose slowly, trying to slow his hammering pulse, loosen the tension in his muscles. He wasn’t going to be able to get any sleep, now that those memories were circling in his head like vultures, but if he could relax maybe Sherlock, at least, could get some rest. 

He felt Sherlock move, rolling to his other side, and he pulled his arm back, tamping down on his surge of disappointment at the loss of the feel of Sherlock’s body against his. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. But he could feel the gentle puffs of Sherlock’s breath against his face, warm and slightly moist. 

“Not as good for body heat,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with a smile he didn’t feel. “But probably more comfortable.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. 

In truth, the air in the shelter had warmed up considerably, and they probably didn’t need to be spooned up in order to stay warm. Sherlock would probably feel more comfortable this way. 

He felt something touch the side of his face, slightly cool, and realized it was Sherlock’s hand fumbling at his cheek. Then something warm brushed against his mouth, plush and soft.

Sherlock was kissing him.

John jerked backwards in surprise, banging his head against the rock. A little shower of snow sifted down from the branches above and he yelped as the icy flakes struck him.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, breathlessly. 

“No, I just… what?… I don’t… you don’t….”

“I just… I didn’t… I mean, I’ve wanted… ever since…”

“But you don’t… you said it wasn’t your area.”

“I said _girlfriends_ weren’t my area.”

He swallowed, and blinked, trying to process.

“I _did_ say I was flattered, if you remember.”

John had never wanted to see Sherlock’s face as badly as he did right now. “Now? Now is the time you pick to do this?”

“Well, you said we needed to stay warm.”

A laugh escaped him, rising up from his belly despite his shock.

“You’d prefer a different time? Shall I check my diary? When is your schedule open?”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Of course, if you’re not interested…” He could hear the faintest tremor of uncertainty in that normally confident baritone.

“Of course I’m interested, you great berk. I told you that from the get go.” He reached up blindly and steered Sherlock’s head towards his by feel. “I don’t want to freeze to death either.” 

“So practical,” Sherlock murmured, as John kissed him. “My practical soldier.”

There were a lot of things the Army had taught him, John mused, several hours later, and a lot of things they hadn’t. One that they hadn’t was that kissing could exponentially increase the amount of heat in a small shelter, especially when one of the participants had a mouth that was made for it and the other one had an insatiable desire for said mouth. 

There had been something wild and intense about kissing in complete darkness. Every other sense of his had been heightened; the feel of Sherlock’s smooth porcelain skin under his hands intoxicating, the taste of him exhilarating. His murmurs and breathy moans made John shiver in the still, redolent air. 

Finally, warm and sated, they had settled, entwined together on their cushion of boughs in the deep velvet blackness, and fallen asleep. 

Now, as the dawn started to fill the small shelter with light, John lay, head propped on his hand, and feasted his eyes on the sight of Sherlock sleeping. 

He looked so young and vulnerable, his usually severe expression softened, brows and mouth relaxed and gentle. John couldn’t stop himself from stroking his fingertips down the angular line of his cheek, then leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on that perfect Cupid’s bow mouth. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and he gave John a sleepy smile. 

“Morning,” John said, grinning.

Sherlock yawned and somehow managed a feline stretch in the tiny space. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“As well as I could, considering we’re stuck in the middle of the Serbian wilderness with no food and at least a forty-mile walk ahead of us.”

“Sounds boring. Maybe we should just stay here.”

John laughed. “I think I’d like to get back to a proper bed.” He brushed Sherlock’s fringe off his forehead. “About last night. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking a chance.”

“No chance involved.” Sherlock looked up at him, and John felt that he could lose himself in the depths of those oblique gleaming eyes. “It’s always been you, John Watson.” 

His throat closed up and he couldn’t speak. Good thing he could use his mouth in other ways. 

Even morning breath couldn’t detract from the thrill of kissing Sherlock, and he had just begun to seriously consider whether Sherlock’s idea of staying put had merit when he heard the growl of motorized vehicles approaching. 

Sherlock had heard them, too, because he raised his head. “Two snowmobiles,” he said, frowning. 

“The Baron?” John whispered.

“Not his style,” Sherlock replied. “If he’d wanted us dead he’d have simply killed us last night, not thrown us out.”

The vehicles came to a stop not fifty feet from where their shelter was, and their motors cut off.

John leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear. “Don’t move,” he breathed. “They might not see us.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft’s voice rang out. 

Sherlock sat up abruptly, upending the makeshift roof of their lean-to in a shower of snow and pine branches. “Mycroft?” he barked. 

John scrambled for his sweater, since Sherlock’s action had lost all the heat they had gathered over the evening. He got to his feet and pulled it on, then tossed Sherlock’s jacket to him.

Sherlock donned his jacket, somewhat the worse for wear after a night spent as a windbreak, and stalked towards Mycroft. “How did you find us?”

“Trackers sewn into the lining and hems of your clothes, brother dear,” Mycroft said sweetly. Sherlock huffed indignantly, and Mycroft smiled. “Don’t forget that I know your tailor.” He turned to John. “Anthea has hot coffee in a thermos on the second snowmobile, and some dry clothes.”

“Oh, thank God,” he replied, making a beeline for the vehicle. He poured out two cups of steaming hot coffee and brought one to Sherlock, who was standing, arms across his chest, still glaring at Mycroft. 

“You should be thanking me,” Mycroft said, his smile replaced by a sour expression. “There are sixty miles of woods between here and the border, and a storm coming. If I hadn’t been able to track you, you’d be in quite dire straits.”

“John would have figured things out,” Sherlock replied archly. “He built us a shelter last night.”

“John has learned never to look a gift horse in the mouth,” John said, pushing one of the cups of coffee into Sherlock’s hands, “especially where the elements are concerned. Drink that, you need it.” His sweater was still damp, and he pulled it off and dug around in one of the compartments of the second snowmobile until he found a dry one. His hand touched something familiar; with a surprised noise he pulled out his and Sherlock’s coats. 

“Oh, yes, the Baron was kind enough to give me those when I stopped by to find out if he’d seen you.” 

“Oh, did he?” Sherlock asked. He strolled over to where John was standing and dug in one of the pockets of his Belstaff, took out a flash drive, and tossed it over to Mycroft. “There you go. The names of all the Serbian nationals operating undercover in the UK.”

He stared at Sherlock in amazement. “You had that in your pocket the whole time we were—”

“—being ‘questioned’ by the Baron? Yes. I stole it off his desk just before we were caught.”

He grinned. “Brilliant,” he murmured, shaking his head. He saw Sherlock blush with delight. 

John stuffed their coats back in the compartment and pulled a pair of parkas out of another. “Much more practical for snowmobiling,” he said, handing one to Sherlock. He caught the resignation that flashed across Sherlock’s face, and tugged him around to face him. “Hey. I want to get back to what we were doing as soon as possible. But I want to do it where we’re warm and dry and in a proper bed, because I want to be able to devote all my attention to it.” 

Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed, but his eyes glittered eagerly. He gulped the rest of the coffee down and pulled on the parka. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?” he said, smiling.


End file.
